


Just Like Flying

by plaguedbynargles



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Memory Loss, One Shot, Post-Reichenbach, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-18 21:17:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16126916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plaguedbynargles/pseuds/plaguedbynargles
Summary: James Moriarty doesn't die when he shoots himself on the rooftop. Instead, he loses all of his memories. Sherlock, on impulse, goes to see him in the hospital to end his nemesis's life once and for all. What actually transpires is quite different.





	Just Like Flying

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo this is very very old. From three years ago, in fact. I haven't touched Sherlock a bit for at least two of those three years, but I remember it all like it was yesterday. Sherlock and Jim will always be favorite characters of mine.
> 
> Anyway, I'm publishing this because I'm currently querying for my first novel and trying to make something of myself, and I am desperate for some kind, any kind, of validation. So here. Have an old fic. I hope it's enjoyable.

               Sherlock gave the clock a quick glance, to make sure he could actually afford to make this impulse visit. Unfortunately, he most certainly could—everything had gone according to plan.

               Well, most everything. If there was any possibility he’d rendered as irrelevant, it had been Moriarty shooting himself. _How_ he’d managed to overlook the weapon concealed within the criminal’s coat was something Sherlock almost didn’t want to examine. It was ridiculously bloody obvious, and to admit to himself that he’d missed it completely was not only humiliating…it was disturbing.

               Almost as disturbing as the fact that a part of Sherlock, no matter how small, was hesitant to go through with what he was about to do.

               A fatal gunshot to the head wasn’t something possible to practice, not on oneself, and even Jim Moriarty made mistakes sometimes. So now, Sherlock was left to finish the gun’s work. Ignore any sense of gratefulness that would normally be a required response to such a miracle, and smother the blessing instead.

               _Not a blessing_ , Sherlock reminded himself. Although, if he really considered it, he supposed the only reason he thought that was out of obligation. But then again, maybe those obligations were what separated him and Moriarty.

               Now that he was alone, left completely to his own devices, he wondered if Jim’s route was easier. Both the suicide, and letting his mind take the reins.

               Slowly, Sherlock creaked open the hospital door. The room was lit, despite the late hour. Hospitals were never empty enough for the detective’s taste, but he’d be a bit less likely to run into trouble at 2am.

               He closed the door gently behind him, the oxygen sucked from his lungs at the sight in front of him.

               Jim Moriarty lay flat, sleeping or comatose, Sherlock didn’t know, dressed not in Westwood but in standard hospital garb that matched the sheets and thin blanket on the bed. Bandages were wrapped thickly around his cranium, and he was hooked up to an almost laughable amount of machines and wires. Vaguely, absurdly, Sherlock recalled a movie John had forced him to watch a while ago; something about outer space.

               This was wrong.

               Sherlock took a step closer to the bed, feeling sick. For God’s sake, this was ridiculous. He shouldn’t feel anything. He’d won the game, or was about to win. But was it truly winning if Jim didn’t even know he’d lost? He wasn’t even awake! This was like shooting a sleeping lion.               

               The detective bit his lip and, against his better judgement, took another step closer to the criminal.

               Jim looked tired. Sherlock hadn’t really noticed it on the rooftop, but there were dark circles under the criminal’s eyes, and frown lines were partially visible on his forehead even in his current, neutral expression.

               Sherlock recalled the way Jim had looked at him on the rooftop with a shiver. There was something in the reverence of his expression that hadn’t quite fit in with their game, and it was worrying. Especially given the fact that a part of Sherlock strangely wanted to see it again. Just one last time, before he ended this. If only to confirm he hadn’t imagined it.

               Beside him, Jim twitched a finger, and all of Sherlock’s senses suddenly snapped to attention. His muscles tensed and his pulse spiked as he leaned over the criminal, ready to grab him and end the game once and for all.

               Jim moaned quietly, a noise deep in his throat that made Sherlock’s stomach flip mysteriously. He started to stretch his arms and legs, and his forehead creased in discomfort upon noticing the wires that limited his range of movement. His eyelids fluttered, and Sherlock was just beginning to consider the possibility that the criminal might scream for help when he started underneath the detective with a gasp.

               “Who are you?”

               For a moment, he almost sounded genuinely afraid. But Sherlock knew better.

               The detective shook his head, sneering, “Couldn’t think of anything better? I’m starting to think you’re a bit of a one trick pony, _Richard._ ”

               Jim pondered the statement a moment, and to Sherlock’s fury, he still looked confused.

               “Richard? That’s my name?”

               Sherlock couldn’t help it. He snickered. There was no humor in the sound, and to his amazement Jim even _pretended_ to shrink back.

               “Ohh, this is incredible. Really, I commend you. Are you even actually hurt? Was it even a real gunshot?” He reached towards Jim’s bandages, and the criminal shrunk back.

               “Stop it! Ah, _shit_.” His voice cracked pathetically on the last word, like a line delivered from a play. Sherlock leaned in sadistically.

               “ _Please_. You’re an actor, but you’re not that good. No one is. I came here to finish the game, and I’d rather kill you while you’re _not_ playing a part—”

               “ _Kill_ me?” Jim’s eyes widened in fear as he scrambled fruitlessly to get away from Sherlock, and the detective was about to get this over with out of annoyance when he noticed the heart rate monitor to his left.

               It was beeping dangerously quickly, warning of a heart rate _far_ above the ideal level, especially for a hospital patient.

               Hesitantly, Sherlock took Jim’s wrist in his and laid two fingers to his pulse. It hammered against his skin as the criminal stared at him with wide eyes, chest heaving. Sherlock’s stomach did the weird floppy thing again and he let go, pulling back to study Jim.

               “You…you’re not….”

               Jim looked ready to cry. He shook his head, clueless and afraid. “Not what?”

               “You _truly_ don’t remember? Sherlock Holmes.”

               The lack of a flinch, a twitch, _anything_ at the name was answer enough.

               Sherlock sighed, his whole body seeming to deflate. Jim didn’t remember. How the bloody hell were they supposed to finish the game now? The brilliant mind he’d danced with was gone, replaced by what could only be an intellect of the most basic sort.

               “What…what did you mean, ‘kill me’?”

               It was so strange to hear such an innocent question come from the face of the Napoleon of Crime that Sherlock simply stared at him for an inappropriate amount of time before answering.

               Finally, the detective sighed, irritated. “Nothing.” He turned to leave.

               “Wait!”

               Reluctantly, he faced Jim once more.

               “ _What?_ ” he hissed.

               “Am I….am I an actor? Was I shot? Is that why I can’t remember anything?” Jim looked to him with ridiculously large brown eyes.

               “Something like that.” Sherlock turned to go again, accepting the fact that he was not going to be able to kill Jim tonight.

               “Wait!”

               Sherlock rolled his eyes. “What?” he snapped, a little louder this time, causing Jim to wince.

               “Who are you? Who’s Sherlock Holmes?”

               The detective stared at the criminal for a long time.

               “No one.”

               “Who? You, Sherlock, or both? What’s your name?”

               Sherlock hesitated a fraction of a second. “John,” he answered.

               Jim nodded slowly, frowning. “You know, you don’t really look like a John to me.”

               “Oh come _on!_ ” Sherlock exclaimed, and Jim winced again.

               “Quiet down. ‘S not my fault I’m here,” he said quietly.

               “Actually, it is.” Sherlock didn’t even try to soften his tone of voice, though he did lower his volume for fear of attracting a nurse. “You shot yourself.”

               Jim’s face fell, and Sherlock was floored at the mere capacity of his face to show such sadness. “What?”

               “I said, you shot yourself.”

               There was a very, very heavy silence. In a brief fit of insanity, Sherlock almost wanted to comfort Jim.

               “Why?” The criminal’s face was twisted with pain, like he could barely get the word out.

               Sherlock shook his head. “I wouldn’t know.”

               “Why?”

               The detective paused. “I wasn’t a friend.”

               “Oh?”

               “More like a business rival.”

               Understanding, or at least the illusion of it, dawned on the criminal’s face. “Ah, so it was like that. Did you get a role I wanted?”

               “No.”

               “Then why did I—?”

               “I don’t _know_ why you did it!” Sherlock snapped again, unsure why he was suddenly so upset. Jim studied his hands, and after a moment, changed topics.

               “I’m not married?”

               Sherlock balked at the idea that any form of Jim Moriarty, memory or not, could possibly care about such a trivial thing.

               “No.”

               “I don’t have children?”

               A heavy sigh from Sherlock. “No.”

               Jim paused. “Was I lonely?” he asked quietly.

               Sherlock froze, his face a study in terrible realizations.

               Now that he thought of it, there seemed to be very little possibility that Jim hadn’t been lonely. Sherlock had always thought the concept a trivial one, until he’d known something different. Only after he’d moved in with John had he realized just how insidious a condition loneliness could truly be.

               He couldn’t imagine a consulting criminal kept anyone in close company. His chest twisted painfully at the idea.

               “Probably.”

               “Did I have _anyone_?”

               Sherlock hesitated, but there was really only one person who came to mind. Hating himself, he voiced the name.

               “Sherlock Holmes, I suppose.”

               Jim nodded absently. “Who was he? My boyfriend?”

               Sherlock was surprised by the assumption, but he didn’t contradict it.

               “Yes, I suppose.”

               Jim ignored the lack of commitment in the statement and nodded in affirmation. “That fits. You know, when you’re not trying to kill me, you’re actually quite dashing.”

               Sherlock raised an eyebrow, silently praying it distracted a now innocently smiling Jim from the blush that tinted his cheeks. This was all starting to feel like a strange dream.

               “Oh, right! Sorry,” Jim added, flustered, “we’re rivals, aren’t we? Apologies. Tell me about my boyfriend.”

               Sherlock sighed, deciding for whatever reason to indulge Jim. “He’s…fine.”

               “Yes, but that’s a given. What does he look like?”

               “Ah…” the detective struggled for a lie. “Blonde. Hazel eyes. Short, but quite intelligent.”

               Jim frowned. “Did I settle? I mean, I suppose it’s good to have a smart one, but…” His eyes settled on Sherlock, whose stomach proceeded to flip again.

               “What?”

               “You know, I think I like dark hair better.”

               In spite of himself, Sherlock smirked, cheeks going hot. He had to ignore that. Had to ignore the very _obvious_ signal Jim was sending him right now. The detective stared at the floor.

               “Why is my nemesis here when my boyfriend isn’t?” Jim demanded, suddenly a little less unsure.

               “Your boyfriend is dead.”

               Jim’s face fell. _“What?_ ”

               “He held your hand while you shot yourself, then jumped off a building.”

               The criminal’s face contorted in pain, and Sherlock wished he could kick himself for saying something so cruel. Jim seemed a good deal more fragile in this state than he usually was.

               “Fuck,” Jim’s voice caught dangerously, “that’s twisted.”

               “I suppose so.” 

               “So what?” the criminal demanded. “Do I have family? Anyone but you?”

               “Afraid not.”

               Jim blinked back tears. “Wow,” he nodded, mostly to himself, “I almost wish you’d killed me.”

               Sherlock was silent.

               “ _Fuck_.” A single sob tore its way out of Jim; a horrible, aching, wrong sort of noise.

               Somehow, Sherlock found himself sitting on Jim’s bed. He hadn’t the faintest clue what he was doing, but he knew it felt strangely…right. To hold the criminal in his hands. To be an object of comfort for someone, especially someone normally above that sort of thing, was mysteriously pleasurable.

               “Stop,” he whispered, leaning in to plant a quick kiss on the criminal’s bandaged forehead. Jim grew very still underneath him, and when Sherlock pulled away, the criminal’s eyes had darkened almost unperceptively.

               “One more?” he glanced up at his bandages. “Where I can feel it?”

               Sherlock complied, gently pressing his lips to the criminal’s. He could swear he could still taste gunmetal on Jim’s mouth, but that could easily just be his senses in overdrive. Sherlock’s pulse was loud enough in his ears that he almost couldn’t hear Jim’s heart rate monitor also going haywire, the criminal’s fingers gently wrapping around his arm as _if_ he was anything reliable to cling to…

               Sherlock often was frustrated with the limitations of a body, but having to break this kiss for air was the angriest he’d ever felt with it. He stayed close to Jim, enjoying even the faintest scratch of the criminal’s cheek against his.

               Damn it all. This had to stop now.

               Sherlock all but bolted away from the bed, more than a little disturbed at how quickly the scene had escalated.

               “Sherlock—”

               Jim called after him, but he was already out the door. It was only after the brisk night air had done its part in clearing his head that he realized the implications of the last statement.

               The detective ran back up to the criminal’s room as quickly as his legs could carry him, disregarding anyone that tried to stop him along the way, but as soon as he threw open the door, his heart sank.

               Empty. Clean as a whistle. As if no one had so much as breathed inside the room today. Sherlock knew he ought to be worried. Furious with himself. More than a little disturbed by the fact that he’d kissed Moriarty. The ground had essentially just fallen out from under his feet.

               So why did he feel like flying?

              

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again for readin babes. xx


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